


The bad day

by Raspberries_Heartbeat



Series: Insights in the domestic life of the 221B Baker Street family [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gentle Kissing, Hugs, Idiots in Love, Insecure John, John Has Trust Issues, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Parent John Watson, Public Display of Affection, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 11:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11668101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raspberries_Heartbeat/pseuds/Raspberries_Heartbeat
Summary: “I’ve been neglecting you the past days, I apologize. It wasn’t my intention”.John shook his head lightly, suddenly too emotional to talk without his voice hitching. It was frankly embarrassing how sentimental this dumpster of a day had left him, but John felt like he was only a single straw away from breaking;either having a cathartic cry or take Sherlock and escape out of the country.---John has a bad day and needs everybody's favourite detective to make the world alright again. Unfortunately, said detective happenes to be on a case (what a great SURPRISE).Fluff and PDA ensues.Featuring:Cranky Rosie, Noisy Donovan/Anderson, and Good Guy Lestrade---Characters are not mine





	The bad day

It wasn’t often that John Watson had a bad day. Sure, he had ‘this day is fucking surreal what is actually happening’- days, but one might guess that’s a common by-product from working and being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

But aside from the insanity he had to put up with on a daily basis, John didn’t really do bad days. The years as army doctor had taught him to be grateful for every day he could live in peace and quiet (as peaceful and quite as it can get when Sherlock was involved), so he wasn’t really one to get upset about a whole day. Life was short - a platitude with a hint of truth. John Watson had seen his fair share of forcefully shortened lives, so it came almost naturally for him to value the life he had.

Sure, he was known for a short fuse and ticked off relatively easy because of seemingly little things (‘I swear to God, Sherlock, the self-checkout counter _hates_ me’), but the outburst of temper usually didn’t last long enough to ruin his mood for the rest of the day. It was true, John was mostly contend with his life. He had a job he liked, a daughter whom he loved, and a partner who made him ridiculously happy; what could possibly make him upset enough to have a bad day?

 

Apparently, three things: 1.) Waking up alone with no Sherlock anywhere to be seen, probably off to some case John couldn’t be _arsed_ to care about at the moment, for the third time this week (and it was only Thursday!). 2.) A call from Rosie’s kindergarten teacher, informing him that his daughter was unusually cranky and wished to be picked up. 3.) Still no fucking Sherlock around.                              

 

John rushed to the kindergarten as soon as his early shift had ended, and cursed himself mentally for thinking they could have a quiet family day. They all longed for one, the last week had been cramped with cases and surgery shifts. Of course, John was disappointed that Sherlock wasn’t there, _again_ , but he had known right from the beginning that The Work was and would always be Sherlock’s top priority. It hurt him, maybe a little bit, but he promised Sherlock (on that one day where the lanky detective had kissed him for the first time) that he wouldn’t need to change for their relationship. So, he didn’t.

And John shouldn’t feel so bloody miserable about it. But as he tried to take the hand of a wailing, complaining toddler, who stomped with her feet and refused to walk more than two steps at a time, he felt bloody miserable about it. They were a team, God damn it, and he was once again left alone to deal with everything. The moments of self-doubt were rare, almost extinct since he entered his relationship with Sherlock, but when they occurred, they caught him off guard. Ever since his partner discovered the crack in his self-conscious, he methodically and considerately showed the doctor that there wasn’t one tiny inch of him that wasn’t worth being proud of – from the soft bit of stomach growing again, to his abilities as a father. But lately his partner wasn’t there to assure him (not that he needed assurance of anything, he was John Watson, thank you very much! A tiny bit of approval, that was all. Didn’t he praise Sherlock all the time? Wasn’t it naturally to wish for _someone_ to acknowledge his efforts as well?!)                            

So now, as he stood on the pavement and tried desperately to reason with his very uncooperative daughter, he felt the very opposite of assured. He felt the very opposite of proud and strong and badass Captain John Hamish Watson – doctor, ex-soldier, crime fighter, his daughter’s superhero. Instead, he felt as if all the people walking by judged this poor excuse of a father they saw. A pretty pathetic guy who had ‘overextension’ written all over his forehead. He couldn’t even handle calming his Rosie’s mood when she was a mere toddler. Did he seriously think at times that he passed as a decent father?

Panicking slightly, John doubled his efforts. They were around two blocks away from Baker Street. He was eager to get to the safety of their flat, away from the glares. He crouched down on Rosie’s eyelevel and settled for his best ‘no nonsense’ glare. It worked on Sherlock, after all.

“We’re almost home, Rosie. I’m not very pleased with your behaviour. Give me your hand, I’m having no more of this fuss”

Clearly, he underestimated Rosie’s stubbornness. She fixated him with the stormy blue eyes of her mother and stuck her bottom lip out. “No” she mumbled behind the full-blown pout; crossed arms and everything.

Somehow, she reminded John very much of Mary in this posture, which did nothing to improve his situation. ‘She would have known how to handle this’ the thought pained him and he tried to push it down, but it kept returning to the surface. ‘She would have been the right amount of stern and gentle; she would have been a good mother. What the fuck are _you_ doing?’

“Rosie, hand.” he tried to put some authority in his voice, but instead it sounded desperate and defeated. His hands were trembling.

‘God damn it, Watson! You chase down London’s murderers, but break apart over a fucking tempter tantrum?!’ Yes, apparently.

The girl held his glare for some seconds and didn’t move an inch. Her brows were furrowed and John could tell that he was one wrong move away from more tears. Oh, how he hated when Rosie cried because of him. Or because he failed to resolve whatever trouble she was having. When he failed to help her. Realizing he didn’t think of this approach yet (he was a crappy father, thanks for noticing), he tried to place a gentle hand on his daughter’s hairline. Normally, it was Rosie’s favourite place to be touched by her father, but during her frustration, she shook his hand away forcefully.

John was dumbstruck to say the least.  Never, never in her short lifetime had she refused a gentle pad on the head. While he stared at the corkscrew curls on the back of his daughter’s head, anxiety gripped him. It seeped like a cold rush of water in his insides, until it found his heart and _squeezed_.

He wasn’t good enough for this. He couldn’t handle this. He had failed. He failed Mary and he failed his daughter. He felt the echo of the pain in his leg return to him, reminding him of all the other things he had failed at in his lifetime. His hands were shaking violently now. He tried to calm his breathing before he worked himself up into an anxiety attack, the kind of which he had when his PTSD dominated his life. ‘You’re the adult here' he tried to remind himself. ‘You’re in charge. She _needs_ you to be in charge’

Fighting the tremor out of his voice, John spoke softly: “What’s wrong, sweetheart? How can Daddy help you?” It sounded far more confident than before and John dared to get his hopes up. However, when Rosie turned to him with a heart-breaking expression written all over her face, John didn’t feel so sure anymore. Fat, ugly tears rolled down her reddened cheeks, but she toned down the small whimpering noises in her throat. She had probably tried to hide her state of distress from John. It wasn’t the first time she had done that; although she was only small, Rosie already had the pride of a Watson, who would much rather appear angry than sad. Didn’t mean it made John feel less bad; his little princess shouldn’t hesitate to come to him with her every need. But she did.

And at this very moment, when his daughter tried in earnest to contain the hitching sobs escaping her tightly closed lips, John felt his heart break a little. (Not that a crack could damage this very crisis proved heart of an unbelievably strong man who had endured enough loss and sorrow to last a lifetime. But the sheer fact that his Rosie was the cause made a papercut feel like a gunshot wound). The doctor closed his eyes for the split of a second to compose himself, before he tried to put on his brightest caring smile. It was forced. They both knew it.

“Use your words, darling. Otherwise Daddy won’t know what’s bothering you and can’t help you”. Sherlock would know, tho. One glance, one fucking glance would be all Mr. Consulting-detective needed to understand the situation and solve Rosie’s turmoil. One fucking glance. Too bad he wasn’t _there_.

John’s mind returned to the core of the problem – Sherlock’s absence – and felt another small pang of anger in his guts. So, he had said it wasn’t a problem that The Work was top priority. But his family, for fuck’s sake _their_ family, deserved a shred of attention, too. Of course, he was being unfair here; Sherlock had made countless sacrifices for Rosie and himself and never once complained about it, but _screw that_ John felt just so fucking alone and helpless. He needed Mr. super detective to save the day.

Because right then, John Watson reached his limit. Maybe it was kind of pathetic to rely on Sherlock so much, but he consoled himself with the fact that Sherlock would have probably starved himself by accident if John wasn’t around to feed him. They shared a close relationship of mutual reliance – a symbiosis if you will – that came with certain responsibilities. Alright, maybe not ‘responsibilities’, but still. Sometimes, John wanted Sherlock to be there, missed him dearly when he was gone and felt strangely empty whenever his other half wasn’t by his side. Today he decided, was one of those days. The anger vanished and was replaced by a deep and nagging longing for the best hugs in the world, provided by one lanky detective. A breathy gasp pulled the doctor out of his head and back into the current state of events. Rosie’s lips quivered in an attempt to form words without sobs and failed quite spectacularly.

John abandoned his previous crouching position to sit down on the pavement beside her. Passerbys gave them side-eyed stares and John made his polite ‘fuck off’ face.  His anxiety had lessened to a tiny tingle in his limps, but the emptiness in his chest stayed. Everything in his body sighed from exhaustion. He felt old. Battled, broken, and oh so very old.

Rosie eyed him suspicious for a second, before – finally! – she gave into her need for comfort. John saw it as a tiny triumph when she shyly buried her face in his dark blue shirt and let out a quivering breath. At least she wasn’t pouting anymore. At least, she let him in. Soothing, he massaged her scalp in circles – a technique that worked wonders even when she had been just a little baby. They stayed like this a little while, until the quiet sobs, evidence of the mood the toddler had worked herself into, lessened. Just when John thought he might never get his answer and proceeded to feel helplessly empty and at the mercy of a god of chance he didn’t believe in, Rosie, indeed, used her words. Or, one word, to be precise. One word, uttered quietly, but uttered with tones of great despair and need.

“’Lock”.

Surprised by this turn of events, John queried some more: “You miss Sherlock, right?” A small nod.  Oh, fucking perfect! The cause of the problem turned out to be the solution as well. “I miss him, too, sweetheart” A small pause. Contemplating. Then: “Shall Daddy text him to ask if he has some time for us? If he comes home soon?”

“Not soon, now” John couldn’t hide a small smirk. If her little majesty decided to be bossy again, not everything was lost.

With the hand that wasn’t occupied, he fished his phone out of the pocket of his jacket and began to clumsily type a short message: ‘Rosie’s missing you terribly (He decided to add ‘And me, too’ would sound a tad too pathetic).  Home, soon? – JW’ He didn’t even lock his screen, when a reply buzzed in. John tried to ignore the tickling feeling in his stomach at having Sherlock’s attention; but he just couldn’t help himself. He was utterly in love with this madman. The smile on his face faltered when he only got a GPS point as reply. It would take around 10 minutes with a cab from their current location on the pavement. Really, Sherlock? Really? Bring a toddler to a crime scene. What a brilliant idea. Father of the fucking year.

‘Robbery. No blood, no corpses, no danger. - SH’ John frowned at his screen, for he really disliked it when Sherlock deduced him via text message. He wasn’t that predictable, now was he? ‘The victims rabbit has kits. Rosie will like them. – SH’

The doctor sighed, knowing he already lost the argument he was having with the version of Sherlock in his head. Although he didn’t really fancy facing the Yarders in the state he and his daughter were in, he was also aware that it was the only way to get a hold of the lanky brunette detective they both so very much adored. ‘Fine’, he thought. ‘Have it your way. If The Work is your top priority, then I have to insert our family into it.’ With small protests of his bad leg (Thanks, anxiety), John straightened himself and gathered a very quiet, very emotionally exhausted Rosie in his arms. “He is not finished yet” he explained the curly head currently tucked in the crook of his neck. “But we can come visit him, yeah? So, we don’t have to wait until we can see him. We’ll be home together in no time.”

Rosie only gave a nod and fisted his shirt. John then realized that he forgot to take her stuffed animal (a bee, Sherlock absolutely loved it) along when he brought her to kindergarten this morning; because he had been in a hurry; because he had spent too much time being upset about Sherlock’s absence. Great. Incapable of parenting, thank you very much. 

He managed to hail a cap at the first try (small victories), and after he gave the driver the address, sunk into the soft cushion of the car seat. Exhaustion made all his bones strangely achy. Honestly, he just wanted to go home. To go home and sink into his completely ordinary chair, play with his completely ordinary daughter, read a completely ordinary novel, order ordinary food and have an ordinary shag with his significant other. Unfortunately, things were never ordinary with Sherlock. As much as he loved their dangerous, exciting lifestyle… it was days like this when he wished for nothing more than a tiny glimpse of ordinary in his life. He knew it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault; Sherlock was just being Sherlock. He had known that beforehand, he knew what a relationship with a mad genius would be like (he had been having one for at least 5 years without noticing). He loved Sherlock madly, really he did… but God, he was so tired. Rosie meanwhile managed to get a hold of herself and babbled away in anticipation of seeing her best friend. Her small hand was clasped tightly in John’s, and the doctor smiled a weary smile. At least she wasn’t cross with him anymore.

 

When the yellow “do not cross” tape of the crime scene came into sight, John felt like it welcomed him; like a colleague, an acquaintance, almost a friend. It was part of his extraordinary lifestyle as much as the eyeballs in the fridge. ‘Who am I kidding?’, John thought to himself when he paid their fare and stepped out of the cab. An ordinary life would kill the adrenaline junkie in his heart. He tried with Mary, and it had worked for some time. But during this time, emptiness creeped inside of his body and stayed; infecting all the tremendously normal aspects of everyday life. He needed the excitement, he knew. He needed the running, and the eyeballs, and the crime scenes and the insufferable git of a flatmate. He was addicted to Sherlock.

It was just the exhaustion talking, making him weary, old, not at all himself.

 It was a big house, the kind of house the newly rich used to appear sophisticated, when in reality all of these houses somehow looked the same. Rosie almost skipped at his side when the doctor pushed the dark wooden door open. The first thing he saw was the mess in the living room, the second was a quite exhausted-looking Lestrade leaning against a hideously expensive looking painting, the final was curly head of the one and only Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t bother to look around any further, for all his attention was at an instant focused on his partner.

Lestrade was the first to notice them, making a low sound to acknowledge their presence (not even batting an eye when he saw Rosie). John felt the attention immediately shifted to them, felt confused, questioning stares in his sides. The array of officers was downright tiny in the living room: Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan; and of course, Sherlock. John could hear two more working in the kitchen.

Sherlock stopped firing deductions at an instance as soon as he noticed his little family standing sheepishly by the door. Honestly, John almost felt a tiny bit stupid. Missing his other half enough to wander in the middle of a crime scene he knew nothing about and where he was no help at all. Sentiment. Sentiment always made a fool of him. With a graceful turn, Sherlock faced John with a small twinkle in his eyes (John gave a small smile in return), and focused his attention instantly on the little girl by the doctor’s side. His demeanour changed at an instant; the superior air around him disappearing in favour of the bright smile he had solely reserved for Rosie. A reliving rush of belonging warmed John’s insides. It was almost enough to forget his insecurities. Almost.

Lestrade ordered Donovan and Anderson to continue their work instead of standing and staring. Although they obliged, John could still hear a comment whispered under a breath; a comment about questionable methods of raising children between crime scenes and dangerous experiments. He tried in earnest to ignore it.

The moment Sherlock made eye-contact with Rosie, there was no holding back. The little girl wrung her way out of the (subconsciously defending tightened) grip of her father’s hand and ran towards a slightly crunched down Sherlock. Donovan made another well-timed, low comment about her disbelieve of Sherlock being a good influence for a perfectly _normal_ child.

They never officially outed their relationship, but made no efforts to hide it, either. There was a sense of silent acceptance of the new shift in their dynamics, although some voices (always the same old voices) obviously thought it had been more of a joke when John once told Lestrade that Sherlock was helping a great deal with Rosie’s upbringing. On a good day John didn’t give two fucks about their opinion about his private life. Unfortunately, today wasn’t a good day.

He watched his daughter run towards the detective with a gaze filled with relief and doubt. Had it been a bad choice to lay their little family out in the open, for everyone to see? For everyone to judge the mistakes they might made, the mistakes that normally stayed hidden in the security of 221B Baker Street. A different feeling than anxiety sunk in John’s gut, although he couldn’t quite place what it was. All he knew was that he suddenly wished they had stayed on the stupid pavement. Passer-by’s were one thing. Colleagues were a complete different. He didn’t want anyone who he had to face every day to know how much of a flop as a father he was. Would there be sneers? Concern? Hell, pity?

John felt his face fall and tried his best to mask the growing uneasiness making him nauseous.  He put on a pained smile when Lestrade approached him, eyes never leaving the now delighted giggling Rosie who was scooped up in his partner’s arms.

“Sorry to interrupt the investigation, mate” His voice sounded strange, even to his own ears.

Lestrade let out a long-drawn sigh. “Don’t be. We are just wrapping up. T’was a rough one, but Sherlock was brilliant, as usual” John gave a curt nod, not really up for chats about the case or Sherlock’s brilliance. Lestrade, oblivious to John’s mood hummed quietly when he watched Sherlock talking to the giggling toddler. “He’s doing fantastic with this, would have never guessed it. The little lady is absolutely gone on him”

John made a vague noise of agreement. He felt slightly bad for being so non-verbal on Greg who had always been a good friend, but couldn’t help himself. Of course, Sherlock was brilliant. Sherlock wasn’t the problem here. Discreetly, he rubbed his aching leg.

Of course, Lestrade decided that very moment to be attentive. He fixated John with an unidentifiable gaze and the doctor tried his very best to act indifferent about it. “Tough day?”

John sighed, He could try to lie to Scotland Yard’s best detective inspector / one of his closest friends, sure, but John Watson wasn’t much a man of indulging in effortless trials. Instead of thinking of some white lie, he met Greg’s eyes very briefly and gave a sheepish shrug. “I guess so” After a pause, considering he could trust Lestrade, himself a father of two: “She’s been in a mood all morning. Hard to believe if you see her now” He sighed again, a little deeper this time.

Contrary to Sherlockian believe, Lestrade was quite good at picking up clues: “This damn series of robberies has been driving us all nuts the past week. Sorry for keeping him so busy.”

John snorted unamused. “Don’t be sorry; he loves this” Greg gave a short chuckle in return. “As hell he does. And God knows we’re sometimes lost without him. But still, London won’t burn down if I refuse to give him a new case for two or three days”

‘Don’t’ John wanted to answer. ‘Our family is not his priority, it _will never be_ his priority’. And maybe throw in some corny joke about how the British Government wouldn’t be very amused when his little brother endangered the Queen by having a family weekend. Instead he chewed on his lower lip. Eyed Rosie laughing so carelessly. Sherlock smiling so brightly. Sherlock met his eyes over the crown of Rosie’s head when he gave her a kiss on the nose.

John watched, and said: “Thanks.” Greg patted him on the back affectionately, with a spark of understanding flashing in the warm pools of his iris. In this moment, John was very grateful to have a friend like Greg. A friend, who understood without asking too many questions. A friend who was content not knowing, as long as he could help in some way.

Just when he thought he might blurt out something sentimentally and stupid, Sherlock himself called Lestrade over. The inspector crooked a questioning eyebrow in John’s direction to which the doctor replied with a shrug. He had a faint idea that it might involve the little bunnies Sherlock had been promising, but really couldn’t quite understand what the genius needed Lestrade for. John didn’t try to eavesdrop, but gathered that Greg was the chosen one to show Rosie the kits in the garden (had his mood been a bit better, he would have given a hearty laugh at Sherlock’s confident use of the name ‘Graham’ and Lestrade’s frustration about it).

When they were off, John and Sherlock appeared to be alone in the room (save Donovan and Anderson lingering on the kitchen door nearby, probably waiting to get a glimpse of something they could gossip about).

Sherlock straightened (having bend down to set a very eager Rosie on the floor) and locked John in one of his intense glares. Analysing. Collecting. Almost deducing, but softening before the intensity became overwhelming. It tended to be - being the sole centre of Sherlock’s attention was a burning sensation - and John couldn’t help but feel slightly uncomfortable under it at times. Not that he wanted to hide, but Sherlock saw _everything_ , and knew _everything_ about him within a single glance. He often felt bare, oh so vulnerable. Naked, because of a gaze.

Of course, Sherlock picked up the clues of his mental state (crooked stance due to returning phantom pain in bad leg, aching shoulder, tense expression, paler complexion, tremors), but discretely closed his eyes before he could get into deduction mood. He did it for him, John appreciated it; he appreciated the illusion of privacy it gave him.

They stood and stared at each other, what a ridiculous scene; two grown men having a staring match across a messy living room. John tried very hard to fight the insecurity and embarrassment out of his expression; God knows he didn’t want Sherlock to think he was _weak_ in any way (although he felt like, really weak, in like, every way). Just when he thought how ridiculous it was and mustered the courage to cross the damn room to sink into Sherlock’s arms (aka the thing he wanted to for all fucking day) Watson pride be dammed; Sherlock moved, elegant as always, crossing the room in three long strides and halting right in front of John. The smile on his lips was only betrayed by the hint of worry shining in his eyes.

“Hello, John”

It was the soft baritone rumble that did it; this damn velvet voice breaking him every time; no matter if it was throwing deductions all over the place or whispering profanities in the bedroom. Without a word, John locked his partner in a bone-crushing hug; circling the thin, elegantly clad waist in a strong hold and buring his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock made a small surprised sound at the sudden display of affection (after all, John was the one constantly worrying about the things people might talk about, even after they confirmed the rumours about their relationship), but gained his composure back and returned the sentiment eagerly (after all, he couldn’t care less; people always talked, they did little else).

John focused on just breathing in Sherlock’s scent for some minutes, blocking the world and its exhilarating demands out. He literarily melted in the hug; he would have probably tumbled to the floor if it wasn’t for Sherlock’s firm hold around his chest. Grounding him. Soothing him. Keeping him safe. Safety; a strange concept for a crime-fighting PTSD-crippled ex-soldier; yet he found it, oh, how he wished he had realized it sooner; he wished he had realized sooner that safety was in Sherlock Holmes’ arms. His grip tightened. The concept of Sherlock moving away from him became unacceptable. Yet, he was embarrassed for being so needy; he was a grown man in his forties, no longer a hormone-meddled teenager, he should be over the clingy phase. But…

Although they had known each other so long, this romantic entanglement was still so incredibly new, so incredibly fragile. There was hardly a day where John didn’t discover a new side of this madman; a man he never knew could be so caring, and loving; so attentive and sweet; so vulnerable and shy. It was a miracle that Sherlock decided to let John in, to show him all the wonders carefully hidden under layers of arrogance and deductions. Wonderful, brilliant, amazing Sherlock. Choose him, old, ordinary, broken John Watson. What a waste.

This notion finally did it, John pulled away and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sorry about that” he mumbled, looking anywhere but in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock made the deep, throaty sound that escaped him whenever he got confused about social situations and emotional norms.

“I didn’t really mind” he started tentatively, still figuring the shift of mood out. “I like your hugs, why would I suddenly dislike them?” A small pause. Considering. “If it’s about the new cologne you’re using, don’t worry, I’ve come accommodated to the new set of olfactory sensation a week ago…“. Despite his uneasiness, John couldn’t help but give Sherlock his ‘You’re an idiot in your own special way’ look that always, _always_ , twitched into a grin at the corners. It helped to ease his tension a bit. Another beneficial factor was the way Sherlock tilted his head and thought very _very_ hard about the presented social paradox. The concentration written all over his face made him look quite adorable in John’s opinion.

Rosie’s delighted giggles seeped through the house, surrounding them quietly. John sighed. “I meant sorry for showing up at a crime scene without being any help whatsoever”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “I told you it is quite alright, didn’t I?”

John shifted a little, in an attempt to take some weight off his aching leg. “Still…” he trailed off, feeling his neck and ears grow warm under his partners intense gaze.

“Your psychosomatic limp is acting up again” It wasn’t a question, like almost nothing was a question out of Sherlock’s mouth.

John only nodded, and hoped Sherlock would be able to put the pieces together on his own and didn’t make him actually voice them. The idea of talking about his insecurities and anxiety somehow made him awfully embarrassed. Although Sherlock was his partner, John still didn’t feel fully comfortable to share his vulnerability with him. He was used to being tough and strong, stripping the layers of control and authority off to lay all his fears bare did impress him. It always took a lot, but when he did, after he shared a part of himself he strongly disliked, he always ended up feeling more connected to the younger man. Still, it didn’t mean that this trust came easy.

“I’m fine” another nervous throat clearance. “Well, it’s getting rather late, I’ll just be getting Rosie and head home-“ The doctor turned and was already cursing his cowardice, his insecurities and his general behaviour, when strong hands on his shoulders held him back. Surprised, the doctor looked up and met a concerned pair of eyes.

“No” the baritone rumbled softly. “You’re not.” Maybe it was the mixture of a straight to the point deduction mixed with the gentleness of a voice solely reserved for their quiet family life that did it. John felt something inside him _crumble_.

He could lie. He could at least try it. But he was tired and Sherlock was finally there- the only thing he had needed for days and now he was holding back solely because of his pride. His tries would be in vain anyway, since Sherlock had probably figured him out within the first 30 seconds of his appearance on the crime scene. This wasn’t about knowledge. This was about trust. Something, he had to admit, he still struggled with in this relationship. A painful reminder that although the fall remained nothing more than a distant memory most of the time, it still lingered underneath the surface. Not that they ever talked about it. Sherlock had explained himself and somewhere along the lines it suddenly was all “fine”, because there was Mary, and Mary kept him sane when Sherlock went away; but he came back and the tables turned, and once again the only safety under his feet was pulled away violently. The last year had been a confusing mess of suddenly facing the wonders of parenthood alone; of re-discovering negative emotions he thought he had overcome by then; of the blooming relationship between him and his best friend. John Watson was a simple man. Somewhere along the lines of cases and surgery and sorting out his own emotions, he sometimes got overwhelmed. Sometimes, the world was simply too much. The doctor felt the feeling of helplessness seep through him and chill his insides as he met the worry in Sherlock’s stormy eyes. The least he could do was being honest when Sherlock had figured him out.

“No, I’m sorry, I’m not” A wave of guilt hit him for trying to fool his partner, and it mixed with all the stressful emotions of the day’s events. While everything sort of came crushing down on him, his mouth set into motion, to spill all of his pathetic thoughts and feelings into awareness.

“It’s just … Sherlock, it’s somehow too much. I don’t know, and I don’t want to bother you, but… and Rosie’s been cranky all day and I just bloody know I’m a bad father, but it still hurts when the prove hits me right in the face and-“

“John, stop.” The detective cradled the doctor’s face securely in his hands and smiled a small smile.

“I’m sorry”. Instead of commenting, the detective leaned down and place his lips against the doctor’s. It was the first kiss they shared in days, and a strange sense of relive and security washed over John. A feeling so strong and intense that it almost overwhelmed him.

“Don’t be” Sherlock mumbled, breaking the kiss after some seconds but keeping his lips only millimetres away from John’s.

John would later blame it on the damn tone that he let a breathy “ _I miss you_ ” pass over his lips. An emotion he couldn’t quite place flashed in the taller man’s eyes before he drew John I again, to kiss him more forceful this time, as if he urged to pour all of his emotions into one single touch. Once they would be nestled together on the sofa, hours after the current moment, John would suddenly understand that his phrasing evoked the strong emotional reaction out of his partner. The last time Sherlock had heard them uttered out of John’s mouth, he was hiding in the shadows of a weeping willow while the doctor looked down at his gravestone. Ever since then, the verb “miss” was only placed in past tense, since there was no longer any need for this kind of sentiment. John didn’t need to miss Sherlock anymore, technically. Still, he couldn’t help but do, sometimes. Sherlock got easily lost between cases and experiments and being amazing; leaving John behind; soppy old John Watson to be nothing more than subtext, white noise in the background.

Later, the doctor would also realize that Anderson and Donovan had probably been watching the whole thing, but right in this moment, he couldn’t care less when he heard a low whisper and a sound of someone being elbowed in the ribs.

After some seconds of emotional kissing, Sherlock placed his forehead gently against John’s and ran his fingers through the older man’s hair. The gesture was so tender and so intimate, that the doctor’s pulse sped up immediately. This. He had been waiting for this all week. Sherlock. Sherlock and his gentle ways he never thought he could have; Sherlock and the connection he didn’t thing he would share with anyone; Sherlock and his velvet baritone and warm hugs; Sherlock being _there_.

A sound John would deny for the rest of his days left him when Sherlock mumbled reassuring things in a tone as sweet and soft as honey. Little nothings the Sherlock from many years ago wouldn’t have bothered with- but this Sherlock knew, this Sherlock understood; this Sherlock was eager to give John what he needed to be happy. Sentiment, you curious thing.

“I don’t like it when you downgrade yourself like that, John. It’s awfully mundane and stupid. We both know you’re above that.”

Of course, a caring Sherlock was nevertheless always a Sherlock, but oh! John was so thankful for it. It was his special way of thinking and structuring the world that made the genius so unique and utterly fascinating in John’s eyes. He admired Sherlock for all his brilliancy; and admired him even more when he learned that the non-existence of a verbal filter could have its positive sides.

“I’ve been neglecting you the past days, I apologize. It wasn’t my intention” John shook his head lightly, suddenly too emotional to talk without his voice hitching. It was frankly embarrassing how sentimental this dumpster of a day had left him, but John felt like he was only a single straw away from breaking; either having a cathartic cry or take Sherlock and escape out of the country.

Luckily, he wasn’t left with much of a choice, because Sherlock tightened his strong grip around the doctor’s shoulders; in return drawing John even closer until the older man’s nose bumped against the soft folds of Sherlock’s collar. The softness of the obscenely expensive shirt and the smell of Sherlock’s 50-quid cologne against his throat reminded the doctor so much of the quiet afternoons they sometimes allowed themselves (when no case was on and no experiment required Sherlock’s undisturbed attention) that he actually felt himself relax a little bit. Sherlock was here, after all. Sherlock was here, with him, right now. There was no warranty that the detective wouldn’t be neglecting their relationship the next time Lestrade came calling with a case; but what did it matter now? ‘Live the moment, Watson.’ Nobody can promise forever. But Sherlock could promise tonight- would that be enough? John inhaled and exhaled slowly, relishing the moment so close to the very alive, very warm body of his partner. It would be enough. This… this would always be enough.

His heart made a little happy jump when the detective nuzzled his hair lovingly and whispered softly near his ear: “Tell you what; once we get home, we’ll order some takeaway from the Thai place you like so much, watch some of the crap telly you’re ridiculously fond of …. and later, once I tucked Rosie in –“ his voice dropped an octave- “I’ll take you to bed”

John flushed a lovely shade of crimson at the promise of the nights activities to come. Instead of verbally answering, the doctor placed a tender kiss in the crease of Sherlock’s neck to show him that his sentiment was very much appreciated. The detective gave a low chuckle.

“I just know my ways to woo my doctor, hm?” John grinned up at him sheepishly, relived that all the anxiety and tension of the past week, and especially the past hours, melted away.

Later, he would shake his head about the old sob he could become when he grew eager for some alone time with his partner. But in this very moment, John was so immensely grateful that Sherlock understood him and accepted him the way he was; unconditionally, easily, loving; without doubting his abilities as a father and doctor, never questioning his strength even though in his moments of vulnerability; looking past the broken façade to see the person inside.

He was so grateful to have someone like Sherlock – no, Sherlock was an enigma in itself, nothing that could be remotely compared to anything John had known before – in his life that he considered to drop the big “L”-word to let the detective know just how happy he was. He didn’t really know what held him back in the end, but he was glad he didn’t say it. Of course, John knew that he felt that way about Sherlock. And at least to some degree, he was sure that Sherlock returned the emotion. Still. They didn’t run around screaming love confessions like bloody teenagers. Maybe it was a trust thing. John learned to be careful with his heart; and while he didn’t mind calling Sherlock endearments, and sharing affectionate touches, and take him apart in every dirty way…. saying these three simply words… felt too big, too severe for the frangibility of their current relationship. Especially in the middle of a crime scene (tho Sherlock would consider it romantic), with Anderson and Donovan listening to their every word.

John should probably be annoyed at their indecency and total respect for their privacy, but just couldn’t care less when Sherlock hummed happily and even casually chatted with Lestrade once the detective returned with a possibly buzzing Rosie trailing at his side. All the while, his partner’s protective arms never left him. John didn’t feel one tad embarrassed for not really participating in the conversation and just leaning against Sherlock’s warm chest. Rosie was, as anticipated, totally gone on the little bunnies and went on happily pestering John about her absolute need for a pet. John declined every time, but Rosie was far too happy to really care about it, trying to charm Lestrade in buying her a bunny instead. The detective wavered, and compromised to buying her a stuffed animal some time. John was glad Rosie seemed to like Lestrade very much; so he was a protentional babysitter for the evenings he’d like to spend with his partner alone.

The mood was light and friendly, the world not so hostile and gloomy at it seemed to John hours before. A sense of anticipation and eagerness washed through him when Lestrade clapped Sherlock’s shoulder friendly and dismissed him with a good-natured: “Take your two Watsons and get outta here!”

They passed Donovan and Anderson, and John could pinpoint the exact moment that Donovan suddenly realized that maybe, maybe the freak wasn’t so bad, after all. Maybe, just maybe him and his doctor found their happiness in the unusual and twisted lifestyle they were living. Maybe, just maybe the child was lucky to have not one, but two adults who looked after her lovingly. It was the moment when Anderson opened his mouth and was shut up quite rudely by the female officer’s sneer: “Give ‘em a rest”.

And maybe, just maybe – John thought to himself when he waited for a taxi with his partner’s arms around his waist and his chin resting lightly on his shoulder; with his daughter’s comfortable weight in his arms and her delighted giggles in his ear about the kisses Sherlock showered her nose with – they were jealous. After all, nobody had thought (John included) that from all the people at the Yard, the sociopathic, arrogant detective and the crippled, broken army doctor were the ones who found peace in a domestic family life.

Sentiment, you curious thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Second part of my domestic parent!lock series. More to come, I really enjoy writing these!
> 
> Comments and kudos are very welcome <3


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